


Trees of Life, Seas of Dark

by Strange and Intoxicating -rsa- (strangeandintoxicating)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Black Magic vs White Magic, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Shiro's a white mage and Keith's a black mage, mentions of town destruction, technically pre-Sheith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23697616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeandintoxicating/pseuds/Strange%20and%20Intoxicating%20-rsa-
Summary: In a world where magic means the difference between life and death, a jaded white mage meets an injured black mage on the edge of a burning town.Shiro has a choice—leave his mortal enemy to the invading Galra, or go against every instinct to help a man whose race helped destroy his home, his arm, and his family.Add in a dash of magic, angst, bad soup, and a hungry hellhound and it's been bound to be more trouble than either Shiro or Keith signed up for.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 91





	Trees of Life, Seas of Dark

Shiro could smell him a mile away. 

It was a thick, musky smell that permeated the air—burned ozone, rotting flesh, broken magic. It was dark like tar, and Shiro couldn’t help but wince as he got closer. It was almost too much to bear, but Shiro kept going because he knew that he was the only white mage within at least a hundred-mile radius who would be _stupid_ enough to answer the call of a black mage, but Shiro couldn’t stop himself. 

Whoever it was, they were young. Shiro could sense it, smell the fresh lilac and sweet mint cutting just under the rolling black pitch. Their magic was tainted, yes, but… 

There was something there, something _else_ , something entirely foreign, and Shiro just couldn’t stop himself from heading toward the burning hovel of a town. It was dangerous, but living in Altea with the world falling to ruin around him was already dangerous enough. What more damage could today be in the grand scheme of things?

 _And_ , Shiro thought as he glanced at the carnage, _whoever that black mage is—they didn’t do this._

There were too many hoof-prints and piles of shit, too much misery, too much _darkness_ in the wreckage of the town. A black mage, even a new one unable to control their magic, couldn’t do this on their own. 

No. This reeked of Galra. 

Shiro was careful to keep Black, his stead, from getting too close to the red-hot flames licking the remnants of what once was a normal town. It was just like his town had been, all those years ago.

It was near-impossible to stop his mind from wandering to that place, that old solstice. At that moment, Shiro let himself think of what the world had once been like. 

Calm. 

Simple.

Maybe it wasn’t exciting, but it had been _his_ , had been his _normal_ , his _home_.

Nothing was normal anymore. Not since—not since his magic came. Not since the _Galra_ took everything from him.

“Calm yourself,” Shiro whispered, and if it was to Black or himself, he wasn’t quite sure. He ran a hand through his silver hair, the mark of a white mage, and wished he’d had the courage to cut it off. 

Shiro gave himself just a moment in the middle of the chaos, just a moment to close his eyes and mourn the burning town, the broken people, before continuing forward. He could almost catch a glimpse, a tiny glimmer, of what their lives had been like, how their homes and lands stood as a testament to back-breaking labor and love, but now? 

That was all gone.

The Galra took it like they took Shiro’s arm, like they took his parents, like they took his grandfather.

 _Grandfather…_ Shiro thought, and it was like Shiro could hear his grandfather’s voice whispering in his ears, a crooning and soft melody that kept Shiro grounded, even as he made his way through the hell on Altea, the burning wasteland toward a too-young black mage.

It was easier to focus on his grandfather, easier to think of the man as he was, rather than the burning ash the Galra left in their wake. All they wanted was magic; all they took was life. 

Shiro knew, deep in his guts, that the Galra would continue to chase after anyone with magic, anyone who was cursed with its touch in their veins. White magic, black magic— none of that mattered to the Galra. 

They were an insatiable beast, and try as Shiro might, he couldn’t fight them all.

Taking a deep breath, Shiro closed his eyes and concentrated on the wind’s song, the faraway birds, the shifting of the grass under Black’s hooves. 

_Don’t let your guard down, Shiro._

_Don’t stray from the path, Shiro._

_Don’t let your newness become your weakness, Shiro._

_Don’t give in to the Galra, Shiro._

_Don’t die, Shiro._

That made him want to turn around, would have made a man weaker than himself run, but Shiro remembered everything his grandfather said, even if he wished he couldn’t.

**_Don’t let anyone die._ **

White mage, black mage— none of that mattered. Where their magic came from, when it came, didn’t make a difference to the Galra. To the Galra, they were to be drained of their magical cores until nothing but husks of withered flesh remained.

He was a late-bloomer, his grandfather had told him over weathered pages and stale tea and so many stories that filled Shiro’s childhood with awe and terror. Maybe it was from his parents’ death when he was a child, maybe it was the war that took Shiro’s arm as a teenager, his _real_ arm, or maybe it was just that Shiro had always been rather unlucky, despite the fact that his long-ago ancestors were blessed with white magic that could cleanse even the darkest of nights.

The few mages left got their magic as children, but Shiro? It didn’t show up until after the war, when the scarred stump on his arm began to ache and the wooden prosthesis began to morph into something very different.

Shiro looked down at his arm, at the wooden fingers that looked so close to human that it made his throat curl and his stomach churn. He moved them around the reins, bending them as though they were flesh—but they weren’t flesh. They weren’t real.

It was just magic, just… an accident. 

The rest of his arm he kept covered, the knowledge that most would have balked at the mess of skin and wood that had come together in a grotesque nightmare. 

Even then, his grandfather had looked at his mangled arm, smiled, and told him that it was _good_. This was his luck. This was his _magic_ , finally manifesting. Shiro was so lucky to be touched with the magic his family hadn’t seen in nearly a hundred years, so lucky to be _touched_. 

It would have been better if his magic hadn’t come to life after the war. If his body had just accepted its injury, allowed himself to be pitiful and _small_ , Shiro knew that the Galra wouldn’t have bothered to come looking for him. They wouldn’t have wanted his blood, his magic, his very _being_. 

They wouldn’t have killed his grandfather.

But they had and they did, leaving Shiro alone in a world that very well wanted him dead.

And even then…

A small, nearly-silent, moan of pain was what pulled Shiro back to reality. It was barely even there, but it was definitely there, along with the smell of burning ozone and decay. 

“Hello?” Shiro mouthed, voice barely louder than the wind. He didn’t want or need his voice to carry, just in case. “Are you there?”

Shiro listened for the tell-tale of pained, stuttered breaths, of someone trying to hold in their pain, at least until Shiro was gone. Hiding, alone and afraid. 

Always alone and afraid. 

“I’m—I’m here to help,” Shiro added, but if the black mage knew anything about _anything_ , the chance they would come out was... slim. 

_Less than slim,_ Shiro thought wryly, but just at that very moment he saw it, smeared across a nearby rock, untouched by the falling ash.

Fresh blood. 

Shiro carefully dismounted from Black, pressing his palm to her muzzle before dropping the reins as his boots sunk an inch or so down into the fallen ash.

The blood was on an old wooden bench in front of the remains of what once was a park, the whorls warped and the nails rusted. Shiro leaned down, running his finger against the blood.

Still warm. Still red.

“Please, I’m not here to hurt you.” 

For thousands of years, those of black and those of white magic had died and killed and warred, an endless loop of suffering. It was like the sun setting and rising, the rain falling, the birds chirping. It was their way, had always been their way, until the Galra arrived.

It seemed ridiculous, now. Thousands of years of warring factions spilling blood, all the while the monsters to the West gathered their strength. 

Shiro could remember the battlefield, remembered the way the black mages joined sides with the Galra, but that hadn’t stopped the Galra from killing everything and anything that stood in their way—white mages, black mages, normal humans alike.

None of them mattered. They weren’t Galra, and thus they didn’t deserve to live. 

And magic was magic, and nothing else could quite slake their hunger. 

_But I’m not Galra. I’m not. I won’t let this one die, no matter what magic he has. No matter anything._

Shiro turned his head slowly, looking at the darkness just behind the bench, where no light dared touch. “Just... let me try. I promise.” 

Maybe it was the pain that drove the black mage out from the shadows, or maybe he believed Shiro. Either way, the darkness shifted and _he_ fell out, hands and face bloody, covered in ash, head landing against Shiro’s shoulder. He was dressed in a black robe, hood pulled high, but Shiro managed to catch the sight of broken violet-blue eyes and tear tracks carved through blood. 

He looked as though a strong wind would break him, so Shiro did the only thing he could do at that moment: he wrapped his arms around the trembling black mage and allowed the magic that had torn their people apart for generations to seep into his broken and blistered skin.

* * *

It took time to pull apart, the black mage whimpering as Shiro’s magic dissipated every time he tried to move. Shiro hadn’t been able to figure out much about the man in his arms other than that it was a man—not as old as Shiro yet, but old enough that his voice was deep. So deep and so very sad, enough to break Shiro’s heart. 

“Gone. They’re gone. Everyone... gone.” 

What could Shiro do other than hold the black mage as his magic began to slowly knit skin and flesh back together, allow the blood and tears to drip down his shoulder? What words could Shio offer to bring comfort in a time no comfort could ever exist? 

“I...I know.” 

Shiro didn’t say he was sorry, because he could remember a thousand times people singing the same words to him, words that were meaningless, pointless... How could they feel sorry for him when Shiro couldn’t even feel sorry for himself? 

_Feeling sorry for yourself gets nothing done. It’ll make you wallow away in your misery, rip apart whatever little you have binding you together. Don’t be sorry. Don’t ever be sorry._

But he knew. He knew and _understood_ , which was why Shiro let the other man cling to him as though the world were ending. In some ways... it already had.

“C’mon. Let’s go somewhere else,” Shiro said, voice nearly cracking when he heard the man’s whisper just under his breath. 

“Mom...” 

“I know. I know.” 

The sounds of a rumble, low and foreboding, rippled through Shiro’s stomach at that moment, and was surprised when the black mage perked up, though his eyes were wide and filled with terror. 

“We gotta—we gotta go,” he said, mouth trembling as his hands scrambled to grab hold of Shiro. “They’re coming back—” 

“Hold on—you’re going to rip open your wounds,” Shiro started, but at that moment another rumble broke through, this one much closer and far more powerful. 

“We can’t stay here.” 

Shiro knew it was true, from the tips of his hair down to his toes, so he nodded, just once, before wrapping his arm around the man, helping him stumble to his feet. They didn’t have long, maybe a few minutes if they were lucky. 

“Then we should go.” 

The man struggled then, though not half as much as Shiro suspected he wanted to. The wound on his side, still deep and barely holding together, was likely causing his compliance more than anything else. “I’ m—I’m okay. I don’t need you—” 

“Don’t need me, or don’t need a white mage?” Shiro countered. 

It only managed to get the man to balefully glare at Shiro, though from the wince, it was clear that even that small action had taken its toll.

“C’mon—what’s your name?” 

“Keith.” 

“Okay, Keith. You can yell at me all you want later, but for now—” 

The wind howled then, bringing with it the smell of Galra. It reeked of blood, of death, of decay. 

It wouldn’t be long, now. Not if the Galra could smell their magic.

“Damn it.” Shiro had known they were close, but didn’t think they were _that_ close. How had he not realized? Or, rather, how fast were they _moving_? 

Shiro looked to Keith, at the way his entire body frozen, and it was then had Shiro made a decision that was foolish and stupid, but was the only thing he could have possibly done. Leaving Keith wasn’t an option, not anymore.

Instead, Shiro looked at the man and, knowing exactly how angry the black mage was about to get and not _caring_ , Shiro grabbed hold of him. 

“What—” 

“We’re going, _now_ ,” Shiro said as he threw Keith over his shoulder, whistling for Black. 

She was quick, and despite the fists pounding on his back and the black magic swirling around them, Shiro didn’t let Keith go. 

He was going to save Keith, whether he liked it or not.

Shiro grabbed hold of the reins and, with as much power as he had, leaned down and grabbed hold of one of Keith’s legs, his magical arm wrapping around his waist as he threw Keith over her. 

Keith grunted, and while Shiro felt guilt in causing the man pain, he knew that nothing else would’ve gotten him up on the horse, much less in a sitting position.

“Wait—” 

“We don’t have time to wait,” Shiro snapped as he forced his foot into the stirrup and threw his leg over the side in a graceful arch behind Keith. He landed with enough force to make Black neigh, thankful that he’d managed to mount her without throwing either himself or Keith off. 

Shiro reached around Keith with his magical hand, holding the injured man securely in place before he tucked his feet against Black. “C’mon, girl,” Shiro yelled, hearing her whine and Keith’s yell of fear as Black bolted off to the distant tree line. It wasn’t going to be easy to reach the cover of the foliage, but it was their only chance.

“I’ve got you, Keith!” Shiro yelled over the howling of the wind. “Hold on!” 

Keith didn’t let go.

* * *

How long they raced through the trees, Shiro couldn’t be sure. It was long enough that the sun had already begun to set by the time Black trotted to a pause, the horse letting out of tired neigh that made Shiro run his fingers against her side.

“You did good, girl,” Shiro murmured, trying his best not to wake up Keith, who had drifted off into a fitful slumber, likely caused by the adrenaline wearing off and his sudden loss of blood and… everything else. 

Still, Shiro was gentle as he dismounted Black, carefully pulling Keith down into his arms, bridal-style, trying his best not to wake him.

He had barely shared even a handful of sentences, but Shiro could imagine just how pissed Keith would have been had he known that someone was carrying him like this. There was something about him that screamed independence, the refusal to be seen as weak, and Shiro…

Shiro understood that. Understood it better than more people undoubtedly would have. 

Mages couldn’t be weak, not in this world.

Not ever. 

The place Black had managed to find was a clearing deep in the forest, the moss underfoot untouched by boots or tracks, a creek running crystal clear water just to the east. It smelled clean, crisp, nothing like the burned town they’d run from— it was a place Shiro felt with a keenness that spoke to his very bones, and when he briefly closed his eyes, whispering the soft words his grandfather taught him, he felt the ground below _pulse_. 

Shiro gently laid the black mage on the ground before kneeling, pressing his palms into the wet soil and roots. There was magic here, magic Shiro knew, magic Shiro could use.

It was a simple enough spell, a ward that would hide their camp from any Galra who tried to follow. 

Too bad Shiro couldn’t use it. 

Just as the spell began to take root, Keith whined in his sleep, the pulsing ground roaring around them. Birds above rustled, the insects quieted, the world seemed to _stop_.

“Shit.” 

Shiro pulled his hands from the ground, and just as quickly the world returned to normal.

Well, no magic. 

No white magic, at least.

Shiro glanced at the black mage, at his dark hair and tear-stained, bloody face, and sighed. It wasn’t as though Shiro could leave him there, alone and defenseless, even if it meant that Shiro would spend the night without the wards.

 _Even if you’ve never slept a night without them,_ Shiro thought ruefully as he rubbed his hands together before slumping down. There were other things he could do, sensors that could detect movement, spells that could cloak light and smells, but nothing was as powerful as the wards.

But there wasn’t a choice, not if the magic wouldn’t accept a black mage into its protection.

It took time, but Shiro managed to set the spells and sensors, double and then triple-checking them, cleaned up Keith’s face, and even got a fire and a pot of leek soup started before Keith began to stir, the sound of his stomach growling making Shiro softly smile at the other man.

“You hungry?” 

Keith looked down as he struggled up to a sitting position, wrapping his cloak and robes around him, trying to use them as a blanket to hide from the wind. “I— no.” 

Shiro frowned as he swirled his spoon around the soup, though it was more water than anything. Shiro’d been running low on supplies, his entire reason for heading into the town in the first place. It wasn’t much, but Shiro knew what it was like to be hungry, and even if his cooking wasn’t magical by any means— ha— at least it was _something_.

“You sure about that?”

Keith’s stomach let out another growl, one that made Shiro wince. 

“I’m… you don’t need to feed me,” Keith replied, and though there was a bone-deep tiredness in his voice, it was stronger than it had been when Shiro had first found him. “It doesn’t matter.” 

Shiro knew those words, knew that feeling, well. “But it does matter.”

“To who?” 

Shiro shrugged one shoulder. “To me.” 

“It shouldn’t,” Keith replied, but it was all bark and no bite. Shiro could see the way he was looking at the loaf of bread next to Shiro’s thigh. “I’m just— I’m just some black mage you found. You don’t eve _know_ me. I don’t even know why you… you…” 

“Saved you?” Shiro asked as he reached down to the loaf of stale bread, pulling off a chunk to put at the bottom of the bowl. If he just straight-up gave it to Keith, he’d probably chip a tooth considering how old it was. At least the leek soup would make it softer. 

Keith clearly didn’t like the word, that much Shiro could tell from the way his mouth pinched and he hunched down further.

“You didn’t…” Keith paused, adjusting his shoulders before hanging his head low. 

Shiro swallowed. He shouldn’t have said anything at all. “You’re right. I didn’t save you. I just helped— a bit.” Shiro smiled, hoping that the man across from him looked up. “It wasn’t much, promise.” 

Shiro held out the bowl for Keith to take. “But the least I can do is feed you, right?” 

That, if anything, rankled Keith even further. It was a suddenly shift, like a roaring inferno, but there it was—black magic, deep as an abyss. 

“Do you expect a thank you?” Keith snarled, black magic whirling around him like a fog. “Do you want me to pat you on the head and tell you that you’re a good boy? Huh? _Huh_?” The magic curled out towards Shiro’s hand and, as if on instinct, Shiro snapped his arm away. Fingers tingling, Shiro could feel his innate magic building up, begging for release. 

Images flashed through his mind—memories of the war, of the pain and misery and death—and Shiro wished he could have taken everything he said back. 

It was stupid, so damn stupid, except...

“No. I don’t.” 

The wind blew and Keith’s magic floated over the fire, that heady, dark smell making Shiro’s mind spin. There was a taste in the air, like static electricity, that made Shiro stick his tongue to the roof of his mouth. 

“I don’t need or want a thank you,” Shiro continued, voice soft, though he couldn’t tell whether or not it made a difference. What Keith had gone through, what he’d seen… 

Shiro knew it well, knew what it did to a soul. Even if Keith couldn’t say it, couldn’t show it, Shiro understood.

“They why’re you trying to be so damn _nice_?” Keith’s voice _broke_ , though Shiro chose to ignore it. The black magic was fading, the feeling of electricity disappearing just as quickly as it came.

Shrugging, Shiro held out the bowl again. His hand shook, but he prayed that Keith assumed it to be the wind. 

“Because I remember when I was in your shoes. I remember exactly what you’re feeling, and I know that if you don’t eat you won’t be able to get strong. You won’t be able to keep going. You won’t be able to liv—” 

“Why do you think I want to live?” Keith’s words rang hollow in Shiro’s ears. 

It was like watching a little part of the black mage in front of him die, a spark going out, snuffed out by the biting wind. “Why’d you bother to bring me here? It would have been better if you just left me to—” 

“To die?” 

Whatever Keith was about to say died on his lips. 

“You want to die right now, and yeah, Keith. I get it. No— really, I do. I know it feels like that right now. I know what you’re going through.” 

“How can a pretty boy white mage know anything of what I’m going through?” Keith spat and suddenly, with more energy than Shiro expected from him, Keith reached out and knocked the bowl straight out of his hands. The bread at the bottom of the bowl went flying into the sky, landing in the dirt near the fire. “How can you know what _pain_ feels like?” 

The fire roared, and the wind howled angrily around them. It was so close Shiro could nearly feel the flames on his face, though he made no attempt to move. 

Shiro swallowed. He knew this feeling, too. 

“I know what you’re feeling because I’ve been here before,” Shiro replied, words blunt like the cool edge of a sword. “I’ve been exactly where you are now. Exactly, Keith.”

That, at least, made Keith pause. 

“You’re not the only one who lost your family or watched their entire town burn to the ground because of the Galra.” It was a hard truth, a cold truth, but the truth nonetheless. “And if you give up now, if you let them win, it’ll all be for nothing. Their deaths— it’ll be for absolutely nothing. Do you want that? Do you think _they’d_ want that?” 

Keith blinked back his tears, and though Shiro could hear his broken heart reach out with magic, magic that Shiro didn’t understand but _relished_ either way, he gave a shallow nod. Wounds like that, wounds that cut deep into one’s very core, damaged more than just the soul. 

They damaged magic, too. 

But despite the pain, the agony Shiro recalled like an arrogant and cruel lover, Keith’s magic remained bright. 

It was the most peculiar sensation, Shiro realized as he looked into Keith’s too-blue eyes through the flame. All his life he’d been taught what black magic was, how it was corruption absolute, that it was nothing like a white mage’s spirit or essence. But, right at that moment, Shiro could barely tell the difference. 

It was magic, pure and unadulterated _magic_. It was theirs, and even if it was different, it was more than what the Galra could ever have. 

More than they would ever get.

Shiro hadn’t been this close to a black mage since the war, when he’d lost his arm, but being near Keith… it felt nothing like that. Even with the flame, the pain, the rage, Keith’s magic didn’t sing of evil. It didn’t sing for death for the sake of death.

It simply was what it was, what it always had been. 

“You, too?” 

Shiro looked away, watching the blazing inferno before him temper down. “Yeah. They, uh… they did.” 

“Oh.” There wasn’t any need to apologize, because Shiro understood it in his words, in his tone, in the pain that they mutually shared, hidden as far from others as it could be. 

The air, tempered by the silence and the faint smell of leek soup, grew heavy, and though Shiro wished he could have said something, nothing would have been right. There were no words that could take back what happened, try to turn back the clocks, but kindness could never be taken away. Even in the darkest moments, Shiro knew he could give at least a little light.

So, Shiro did what Shiro knew how to do. 

Reaching down for the bread and the knocked-over bowl, Shiro tore off another chunk and put it in the bowl before spooning some of the leek soup on top. “I don’t have much— just some soup and bread, and it’s not all that good— but I’m more than happy to share it with you,” Shiro offered again, holding out the bowl again for Keith to take. “It’s up to you, Keith. I can’t make the decision for you.”

Maybe it was the glint of the moon above, the fire below, but Shiro immediately regretted reaching out at that moment. Keith’s eyes immediately went to his hand.

It took everything in him not to pull back, but…

Shiro didn’t realize that his breath caught in his throat until he felt Keith’s fingers against his wrist, against his _wooden_ wrist. 

“Magic?” 

His words lingered in the air for a moment, and though Shiro could feel Keith’s hands on him, it felt _wrong_.

Except... How long had it been since someone touched his arm? How long had it been since someone touched him at all? 

Shiro couldn’t even remember, and though that should have bit down on his insides, Shiro pushed it aside. 

“Yeah,” Shiro said after a moment, trying to not show just how much Keith’s touch rattled him down to his very core. That hand on him, for a reason that Shiro couldn’t even begin to contemplate… 

It was wrong to feel that way, wrong to look at a man who was so broken, so pained, and feel his heart flutter up into his throat, but Shiro couldn’t help it. 

No one except his grandfather had touched his wooden arm before. 

After the war, everyone had avoided touching him, knowing that it meant that Shiro was marked for death. White mages meant pain, a pain Shiro keenly knew. 

But Keith, a man who had just suffered such a loss, held his wrist with the gentleness of a lover, unafraid of the magic thrumming just below the surface.

“Can you feel it?” 

Shiro nodded, pressing his lips together. He didn’t want to say anything, didn’t want the contact to end. It’s been so long since he’d been touched, so long since he’d been anything other than a lonely white mage, pushed away from everything and anything that he could have hurt. 

Keith let go, but Shiro would have been happy to have that hand on him forever. Simple affection, simple humanity. 

He’d missed it more than words could say. 

“I’m sorry. For, uh, touching you. I’ve just never seen something like that before,” Keith said after a moment, taking the bowl from Shiro’s hand. “And… thank you. For the soup.” 

“Yeah, no problem.” 

* * *

They slept that night nestled under the stars, though it took far longer for Shiro to fall asleep than for Keith.

It made sense, after all; Shiro had managed to get Keith to show him the wound across his stomach, though it’d taken another bowl of leek soup and a promise not to poke and prod too much. While the skin was beginning to properly knit itself back together, the magic Shiro had left as well as Keith’s own innate magic would take time to fully heal the wound.

As for Shiro… 

The lack of wards was what kept him awake for longer than he should have, though Shiro could already feel the pull of sleep just at the edges of his consciousness. Every breath, every beat of his heart, pulled Shiro closer to sleep. 

The fire was nothing but embers, but the wind had finally calmed, giving Shiro and Keith just enough warmth to make the night air chilly but not quite cold.

Shiro had given Keith his only other set of clothes, but Shiro was more than happy to do it, even if it meant Keith was swimming in them. It was better than the blood and gore, that was for sure. 

Still, the issue really came down to sleeping gear, of which Shiro had exactly one set of. 

“We’ll be a little close, but… we’ll just have to make do,” Shiro said, trying his best to keep any emotion from his voice. That small touch at dinner had awakened something in Shiro. Having been starved of touch for so long, the thought of laying next to Keith, listening to his soft breath as he fell back to sleep… 

It was almost as intoxicating as mead, if Shiro were honest with himself. 

Just as the world began to fade, Shiro focusing in on that sweet breathing, he heard it—  
  
Trill screeching, the ward shattering.

Shiro’s eyes went wide and he moved to grab Keith, to protect him from the Galra, but despite how quick he moved, _it_ was faster.

Shiro felt the pain of teeth ripping into his wooden arm as hands— no, _paws_ — pinned him down to the hard ground. 

Shiro wildly swung out his human arm, but the beast was gone like a flash of lightning.

“What the—” 

It wasn’t until he tasted _death_ in the air that he knew what it was.

“Hellhound!” Shiro yelled, but the moment the word escaped his lips the beast was back. 

Shiro didn’t have a moment to think, to _breathe_ , to even summon a shield before a flash of light ripped through the clearing and the beast was back, right on top of his chest.

Life flashed before Shiro’s eyes as he stared into golden eyes and viciously long teeth. One bite to his throat would be the end of it— 

“Kosmo, no! No biting!” 

Shiro could still feel the saliva on his throat when the hellhound zapped off his chest and right up next to Keith. 

Shiro didn’t move, not a muscle, until he felt an unsure hand wrap around his bitten wooden arm. 

“I’m so sorry— I didn’t, I didn’t think about him—” 

“You— you have a pet hellhound. You have a _pet_ hellhound.” Shiro tried to keep the hysterical note from his voice, but he was pretty sure he had failed, epically so at that. 

It was nearly impossible to see Keith’s face in the dying embers, but Shiro was pretty sure he could see Keith’s demure nod. 

“A pet hellhound.” 

“Kosmo,” Keith supplied, and Shiro watched as the black mage reached out with his magic to brighten the fire for Shiro to see better. “He’s a good boy. I promise.” 

“He tried to eat me.” 

“You did kind of steal me… but he won’t try that again, will he?” 

The hellhound glanced at Shiro with cold yellow eyes before nuzzling against Keith for a moment, its giant body nearly engulfing the other man, before it turned once, twice, and then flopped to the ground next to Keith. It didn’t look away from Shiro, and Shiro didn’t look away from him for a long, hard moment before realizing that there was no way he was about to win a staring contest against a damn _hellhound_. 

There were a thousand things Shiro wanted to say, but all that came out was a faint, “Okay.” 

“You okay?” 

“Fine,” Shiro squawked. “I’m fine.” 

It most certainly was anything _but_ fine, but Shiro tried to keep what little cool he had left. When he’d decided to pull Keith from the ashes of his destroyed town, he’d known that he was a black mage. 

A white mage-eating hellhound should have been expected, really. 

“It’s good that Kosmo came. He’ll be able to keep an eye out for us. If he stops staring at you, that is.” 

Shiro tried to laugh, keyword being _tried_ , but his misfortune at least brought a little smile to Keith’s mouth.

“It’s okay, Kosmo only eats when I tell him to, and right now… right now I don’t really want him to eat you.” 

“That’s, uh, that’s good, I guess?” 

Keith’s smile widened, and for a moment Shiro could imagine what a true smile would have looked like from Keith. In his mind, it would have been beautiful.

“Yeah, I guess it is pretty good.” 

It was only after Keith laid back down, gently pulling Shiro’s arm with him, that Shiro realized Keith hadn’t let go.  



End file.
